


Bottom of the Barrel

by NuclearNik



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking to Cope, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/pseuds/NuclearNik
Summary: On the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry slips back into bad habits. As always, Hermione is there to help.





	Bottom of the Barrel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Harmony & Co's Lyric Llama. Inspired by the lyrics “I used to spend my nights out in a barroom. Liquor was the only love I’ve known but you rescued me from reachin’ for the bottom and brought me back from being too far gone” from the song Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton. I claim no ownership of it, I only used it as inspiration.  


"Harry?"

A sweet voice rang out in the flat, just before a head full of fluffy curls popped around the corner.

"There you are!" Hermione kicked off her heels and dropped her bags, making her way to the armchair in which Harry was firmly ensconced to settle in his lap and wind her arms around the back of his neck.

The weight of her in his arms was a comfort, a way to ground himself in the present.

It was early May, and London had yet to embrace spring. The sky was dark and heavy with clouds.

That suited him just fine.

Today was not an easy day, not for himself nor Hermione. Not for so many of their friends, family, and former classmates.

When Harry's boss told him to go home early today, he almost protested. Throwing himself into his work was the only thing keeping him sane, most days.

He rubbed his thumb along Hermione's knee, brushing back and forth over the silky material of her stockings, saying, "Welcome home, sweetheart."

"Yes. Home." She brushed her fingers over his cheek, leaning in to press her sweet lips to his.

She pulled away too soon for his liking.

"I stopped off at the bakery on the way home—picked us up a treat."

"Did you now? I think my treat is right here," he said, nipping at the hollow of her throat before kissing it in apology.

Hermione huffed and shook her head, though he could feel her breathing pick up just a bit.

"I'm serious,” she smiled. "I got your favourite."

She waved her wand and a daintily wrapped treacle tart tied up with a red ribbon floated from the depths of her bag to land on the counter. 

She shifted a bit in his lap to smile at him, and the concerned little wrinkle between her eyebrows made its appearance as she finally took stock of his face and noticed his broken glasses. 

"Harry, what happened?" 

He couldn't very well tell her they'd cracked when he had thrown them to the floor as the first bitter, unwelcome tears burned his eyes.

He wasn't going to share that he'd then stood alone in their empty flat for long minutes, staring at nothing, before reaching for the bottle of whisky that her parents had gifted them last Christmas and sliding down against the wall.

He wouldn't say that the half-empty bottle hastily tucked behind the potted fern in the corner had been full not even an hour ago.

Not waiting for an answer, she muttered a quick _ Oculus Reparo, _and his spectacles righted themselves.

Harry lifted a hand to tug at one of Hermione's wild curls.

"Just like that first day, on the train. Before it all—" He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Before it all went wrong."

"You know, when I got to your compartment that day and saw you and Ron, two scruffy little boys, I felt something. A stirring of my magic. Just a little nudge, barely anything. But something nonetheless. I knew that something important was happening. And I was right. I was meeting my best friends and the love of my life."

He kissed her again, pressing his lips to hers and tasting her. When they broke apart, he smiled at her. It felt shallow, like a caricature of happiness. But it was all he could muster at the moment.

They were silent for a few minutes, and Harry focused on the feel of Hermione in his arms, so soft and sweet. 

His guardian angel.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "'Mione, I can't stop—I see it all, all over again. The battles, the wounded, the screaming." Harry softly brushed his fingers across the scar on Hermione's forearm. "It just plays on a loop in my head."

"I know, love." Her fingers were gentle, playing with the hair at his nape. "I know."

She was right—she did know. Perhaps better than anyone else.

"We can't really heal the hurt, can we?" she said quietly. "We can dress the wounds, we can wrap them up and try to forget, but the pain is always going to be there. A burn. A scar. A reminder of all the shite. But it's also a reminder that _ you fought. _You persevered."

That was the real problem, wasn't it? He'd _ survived._ He was still breathing when so many others had their lives snuffed out.

She pressed her forehead to his, still gently running her fingers through his hair when suddenly she stopped and pulled back just enough to look at him.

"Harry… Were you drinking again?"

He swallowed, and it made an unusually loud sound in the otherwise quiet room. Not sure he could form the right words even if he wanted to, Harry just looked into Hermione's eyes, letting her infer the answer from the expression on his face.

"Oh, love." She pressed a kiss to his brow before shifting so she could rise from his lap.

"Come on," she beckoned, smiling softly. "Let's take a shower and wash the day away." 

Before leading him to the bathroom, Hermione walked to the cabinets in the kitchen and rose up on her toes to reach the highest shelf that was stocked with potion bottles of various sizes.

She grabbed one filled with a pale blue liquid.

Harry recognized it immediately. It was something to sober him up, a trick he'd used often in the last year when he'd been drowning his sorrows all night but had work or a function he had to attend in the morning. 

He hadn't needed it in a while. He'd been doing so well, walking the straight and narrow, finding healthier ways to cope thanks to Hermione's help. But at this time of year, the despair hit him like a tonne of bricks and dragged him back down to the dark depths he’d only barely managed to pull himself out of. 

He'd been worried about what Hermione would say to him when she discovered how spectacularly he'd fallen off the wagon. That's why he had hidden the bottle when he'd heard her at the door. 

He needn't have been concerned, though. Hermione had never judged him, and it was unlikely that she would start now.

Instead of verbally dressing him down, she took care of him. She walked back over to where he was still sitting on the chair, and unstoppered the bottle, taking his hand to wrap it around the glass and helping him lift it to his lips.

She ran her hands through his hair and lightly scratched at his scalp while waiting for the potion to kick in. He loved when she touched him like that, and his responding _ purr _ could rival Crookshanks'.

After a few moments, his head cleared which meant the blissful oblivion he'd been experiencing disappeared and reality crashed down on him.

But it was okay because Hermione was here, and she loved him, and she understood him, and she wouldn't let him fall back into destructive habits.

It was okay to be vulnerable here, with her. 

When she reached out a hand towards him, Harry took it, allowing her to pull him towards the bathroom.

She turned on the water, giving it time to heat up. While they waited, she helped him undress, her touch gentle and comforting.

When they were both divested of clothes, they finally stepped into the spray.

They just stood there for a bit, with Harry's back to the water and Hermione's head resting on his chest while they let the heat soothe them. 

After a while, Hermione reached for the soap, gesturing for Harry to turn around. She ran the soap over his skin, scrubbing at his back and down his arms.

They spent a long time in the shower, breathing in the steam, washing and holding each other.

When they were finished and dry, Hermione said, "How about we take a nap? I'd like to hold you right now."

He nodded, going to the chest of drawers against the wall to dig for his pyjamas. When he turned back around, Hermione was already under the covers, dressed in her favourite nightgown that was made of soft-looking grey fabric and patterned with books.

He climbed in next to her, wrapping an arm around her middle to pull her back against him and resting his chin on the top of her head. Her hair tickled his skin, and she patted his hand, holding him close.

Holding her this way—with her small hand wrapped around his and her wild hair trying to sneak into his nostrils—was the most natural thing in the world, and slowly but surely, Harry began to feel like perhaps things would be alright.

He could feel sleep tug at his eyelids, encouraging him to give in.

With one last inhale of the scent of Hermione's hair—apples and some kind of flower—Harry closed his eyes and finally, blessedly rested. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts! Constructive criticism is always welcome. 
> 
> Many thanks to RoryEgg for her fabulous beta work!


End file.
